Varied and Sundry- Superbowl Edition?

• Last night, we went to the Darkroom and I debuted my fancy new Joan Holloway dress with my glorious red shoes. If you think you're sick of hearing about it now, just wait until you see me wearing it every time you see me, because wearing it as a uniform is the only way I can justify it's purpose.
• Speaking of uniforms, some unfortunate looking creature wearing a lavender paisley ascot comes up to us last night (for the third time) and asks me if I am an airline stewardess. Mind you, dude was wearing a fucking lavender paisley ascot. Who is he to judge my fabulous dress.
• I am going to my first Superbowl Party ever today. I know nothing of football. I will be the girl bringing the brie and petits toasts.
• Mr. Catface is being a nudge. He wants to make sweet love to my laptop.
• We talked last night about crying in bars. I have an excessive amount of pride and don't cry much, and have thus only cried in public once. It was in the bathroom at Orzo's, and it was my lady time, and the boy I was with (whom I was retardedly smitten with at the time, despite his conservative leanings, possibly because he resembled True Love Elvis Costello and liked horror movies) started making fun of anti-war protesters. Which, you know, I was. I got really upset because I felt like everything I liked about myself and was proud of was something he thought he'd have to overlook. I don't know, but I totally lost it. It was worlds of embarassing- and it was a bajillion years ago, but I still get redfaced thinking about it.
• I have no idea about what I am going to wear today. I really have to do my laundry. I do not want to go to work. I want to stay in bed with Mr. Catface and eat clementines.

Someone better take me out someplace fancy (and also pay for it because I will be very poor)...

Now, normally, I don't splurge on fancy dresses. I mean, I do, but not the ones that are insanely out of my price range. But I am purchasing this Shoshanna dress this week (yes, the chick who dated Jerry Seinfeld.), and I do not even feel a twinge of guilt about it. It is that fantastic.




It's like, so Joan Holloway I could die. It's actually weirdly hard for me to find fitted dresses that work on me (if they fit in the bust, they're too big for my waist), but this one does, so it's totally worth it.

An unbelievably tragic tale...

As I was walking through West Fest... I noticed that a brand new vintage store had opened up just a few doors down from me- which, a) is awesome, and b) is terrible... you know, for my wallet and all, considering my penchant for dresses and the fact that I really shouldn't be buying anything until I get rid of the shit ton of clothes I need to get rid of.

I try on several super cute dresses... the cutest of all being a glorious, glorious, glorious Chloe dress- which is so mod, and gorgeous, and just like, my freaking dream dress. It's navy blue, with like, a cute sailor type neckline with ruffles and a tie thingy hanging down, and ruffles on the hemline! And the skirt part is tight and the top part is blousy, which is like, my favorite dress cut ever... It is everything I have ever dreamed about in a dress and more, and it fit perfectly.

And it was only 100 dollars. 100 dollars! For vintage couture! For fucking glorious, Lagerfeld era Chloe. Not See by Chloe. Chloe. Motherfucking Chloe for 100 dollars. Could you just die?

But then the salesgirl tells me... there's a reason it's only 100 dollars...

And on the ass, there are like, weird greyish faded areas. I couldn't even wear it at night.

Not fair. Not even a little bit fair. Very few things in my life have been less fair.

But there is hope! I have heard of a magical tailors/cleaners place on Oak St. that can supposedly work miracles. I'm going to call them tomorrow and see if there is anything they can do about it.

A girl can always dream, right?